Wake Me Up
by thefaultoflegend
Summary: Sherlolly songfic inspired by Wake Me Up by Ed Sheeran. Continuation of my other fic, You Are the Only One. Sherlock and Molly rebuild their lives after Moriarty's return.


_**I should ink my skin with your name**__**…**_

_Molly_. That's all he can think of when he gets off the phone with his brother, when he finds out that he is needed once again, _that Moriarty is back_. He knows he has to save London, that everyone he knows is at risk, but there's only one person standing in his mind palace in this moment. Molly Molly Molly. The name feels heavy on his lips as he tries to hold the words in, tries not to scream them as the plane lands and he runs off, into one of his brother's cars. John and Mary stand there, bewildered, looking at the consulting detective as if he has lost his mind.

"Sherlock?" John asks, grabbing the car door before Sherlock can slam it. Sherlock looks up at him, his eyes filled with concern as the name finally gets out, makes it into the open air and floating around, making its way towards John's ears, towards Mary's, towards his brother's who is standing there, wondering where Sherlock is planning on heading.

"Molly." It comes out as a whisper, a tone of desperation behind it and the three parties in front of him understand everything he's trying to say. Molly is definitely in danger.

"Bart's hospital," says Mycroft to the driver. "Quickly." And the car tears off. Sherlock's mind is anywhere but on the road or in that car; he is in a morgue, standing in front of _his_ pathologist, holding her hand behind him, trying to protect her from whatever Moriarty has planned.

_**Take my passport out again and just replace it**__**…**_

He runs into Bart's, his feet pounding into the linoleum floors and his hand dipping down into his pocket fingering a black box there, one that makes him promise to himself right then and there that if, no, when … when he gets Molly out of this mess he will get the courage to properly ask Molly Hooper to marry him. He has the chance now. Molly is in danger, yes, but suddenly there's a flicker of hope.

He slams into the morgue and what he sees there makes his heart stop. Molly, on the ground, covered in blood, a gun in her limp hand, a dead Moriarty lying at her feet. And he's too worried to determine what happened, what led her to get that cut on her forehead and the bruises on her wrists, what led there to be a bullet hole through James Moriarty's head. He's too worried so he just kneels beside her and gathers her up in his arms and wills her to grab him back. He thinks back to her earlier words, said just a few hours before. _Just hold me_. And so he does, brushing blood encrusted hair off her forehead, pulling his scarf off to try and stop the bleeding from the cut there, his words of comfort becoming a mess the longer she stays unresponsive.

But a phrase rings through, a mumbled promise to her that he will keep even if there is no way for her to hear it. "I'm never leaving you again."

_**See I could do without a tan on my left hand where my fourth finger meets my knuckles**_

He's sitting in the blue leather chair by her hospital bed, shifting around to ease the discomfort in his legs that have been in the same position for well over twenty four hours. She is his center of attention, the center of everything during this time and he isn't going to leave her side, no matter how much John persists he needs to sleep. Speaking of which, Sherlock hears the footfalls of the doctor coming down the hall, his shadow taking over the low-lit room as he walks in.

"Sherlock, it might be a while before she wakes up," says his friend with a sigh because he knows it's a lost cause, trying to get Sherlock to leave Molly's side. He's about to just walk out when he catches sight of a shimmer of light coming from the palm of Sherlock's hands. "Sherlock…" he asks slowly, his eyes seeming to play tricks on him in the dim light. "What is that?"

"I think it's obvious that this is an engagement ring, John. You should know this, as I do recall it took you no less than nine attempts to ask your wife to marry you," replies Sherlock with rapid speed while he turns the ring between two of his fingers.

"That's because somebody kept interrupting us," he says half-heartedly, his eyes still fixed on the object in Sherlock's hands. "But what I want to know is why you have that engagement ring."

"I'm proposing to Molly the minute she wakes up," Sherlock replies, as if this is the most normal thing in the world and he isn't aware at all of the open mouthed expression his best friend is giving him.

"Proposing to…you've never dated…Sherlock don't you think you should think about this…"

"I've had this ring for two years, John, always with the sole intention of someday proposing to Molly…" A small sigh from the bed interrupts him and he immediately reaches out to grab his pathologist's small hand as her eyes begin to flutter open. "And if you'll excuse me, John, I think it's time I quit waiting."

_**I should run you a hot bath and fill it up with bubbles**_

Molly spends three days in the hospital before she is allowed to return home. Sherlock is there when she is discharged having spent all three days with her, sleeping in the leather chair when he needed. The first thing she mumbles when she wakes up, after John leaves the room is, "Sherlock Holmes, you are not proposing to me while I'm in a hospital bed."

He doesn't even have the time to be upset as he is just thankful that she has woken up, _that she is okay_. He laughs and leans forward to kiss her forehead, lingering longer than he should and not caring one bit. "Soon then," he replies and feels content for possibly the first time in his life. He is back and she is okay and he can wait.

He takes her back to Baker Street when she is released, promising to take care of her while she recovers and not to blow anything up while she is staying there. She has lost a lot of blood and is too tired to do anything but sleep and listen to Sherlock read to her from John's blog. They haven't talked about anything yet, about them, about Moriarty, about what is next, which is fine with Sherlock. He isn't sure what he would say anyway.

He helps her out of the cab when they get to Baker Street, his hand wraps around her waist and although he has an engagement ring for her in his pocket, this type of contact is so new that it sends a wave of nerves through his stomach, a blush rising from his cheeks up to the tips of his ears.

The first thing he does is sit her down on the couch, running to the bathroom, filling the bathtub with hot water and dumping in some vanilla and lavender bubble bath he had Mycroft procure along with the rest of Molly's necessities.

They don't speak until she is settled in the bathtub, her head leaning back and her eyes closed while he sits on the floor beside her, afraid that if he left she would disappear from him.

"You know I killed Moriarty, right? He can't get to me if you leave me alone to say, take a bath by myself," she says to him smiling, her eyes sparkling with mischief and oh, how he'd missed her smile. He smirks.

"You've been too tired to tell me how you did it, by the way," he replies. They both know full well Sherlock isn't leaving her side no matter what.

"You were there, Sherlock. You saw the scene. You probably know how it happened better than I do."

His face immediately changes to red and he's glad she has her eyes closed. "I…was…distracted," he says, the words stumbling out of his mouth and she opens her eyes, a smile already overcoming her face.

"You were worried about me," she says matter-of-factly as he looks away from her. She can't help herself and starts to giggle, bubbles being pushed forward as she sits up and lays a hand on his cheek.

They stare into each other's eyes, so many words passing between them but none of them being uttered. Molly wants to cry at the tenderness she sees there, something she only ever dreamed coming from Sherlock Holmes but now here it is, staring her in the face amidst those swirls of blue in his gorgeous eyes. She leans forward, slowly until she can't anymore and he has to come the rest of the way, the bathtub creating an unwanted barrier as their lips find each other in one blissful moment, the kiss is short but more than either one of them thought they were ever going to get. "I'm glad you're back," she whispers and he shrugs.

"I could never really leave you."

_**Cause maybe you**__**'**__**re loveable, and maybe you**__**'**__**re my snowflake, when your eyes turn from green to grey in the winter I**__**'**__**ll hold you in a cold place**_

She's still having nightmares two weeks later. Sherlock does his best to ease her through them but he can't seem to penetrate the world of her dreams. She tosses and turns, sweat pouring off of her. Sometimes she screams, sometimes she murmurs names, a lot of the time she yells for Sherlock and his heart is shattered. He always thought it idiotic to believe that when something bad happens a person's heart physically hurts but now he understands. Watching his Molly while she lashes around in fear while he can't do anything but try to pull her closer to his chest is the worst pain he feels because he knows he put it there.

It is his fault that Moriarty went after her. Sherlock had put her directly in harm's way and he would never forgive himself for it. He has nightmares, too. They take place in a dark morgue, in a time when Moriarty kills Molly, when Molly kills him but Sherlock doesn't reach her until she bleeds out and dies. He sometimes wakes up with his head in Molly's lap, her small fingers raking gently through his hair and her mouth murmuring reassurances and planting soft kisses all over his face.

It seems as if they take turns, like their bodies know that two nightmares in one night would drive them over the edge. One night Molly wakes up crying in Sherlock's arms. The next Sherlock wakes up screaming into Molly's lap. The only night they are both nightmare free is the first, just after Molly gets out of the hospital, when they are too wrapped up in each other, in this newness that is them together but also the surprising comfortability that comes when Sherlock wraps his arms around Molly's waist and pulls her to his chest, breathing into her hair and relaxing under the feel of her lips on his neck.

"Don't leave me," she murmurs against his skin knowing that it sounds needy but also knowing that she couldn't face the world without him.

"Never," he replies, knowing that it is simply the truth.

And slowly, they make each other better. Slowly, the nightmares stop. And slowly, they become Sherlock and Molly, the way it was always supposed to be.

_**And you should never cut your hair cuz I love the way you flick it off your shoulder**__**…**_

It is two months after Moriarty is defeated and the pair is lounging on the couch, their heads on either side and their legs a tangled mess in the middle. Molly holds a novel up to her face, her eyes skimming across the words. Sherlock can practically see the world she is creating reflecting off her cornea. He is supposed to be mulling over a new case, but as is the usual these days, he is distracted by his Molly.

Their relationship has been slow-going, after the initial shock of the two of them being alive and in the same city with each other, not with a fiancée or some fake girlfriend. They get to know each other again, all the quirks and little annoyances that come with living with another person. But also all the beautiful discoveries one makes when falling in love. He doesn't talk about getting engaged again, suddenly feeling like he has all the time in the world.

She laughs lightly at something in her book and Sherlock stretches a foot out by her head and starts stroking her hair. She doesn't notice at first, too engrossed in her reading, but then she tilts her head over and cracks a smile.

"Sherlock! Stop! That's disgusting," she says as she tries her best to squirm away, but is pinned between him and the back of the couch.

"You work on corpses for a living and you think this is disgusting," he replies and continues to play with her locks.

"It's your feet in my hair. That's gross." He just smirks so she grabs his ankle and runs her finger up the middle of his foot, causing him to squirm and let out a shriek which makes Molly laugh. "You never told me your feet were ticklish," she says as she starts running her fingers over his instep.

"Do you really…think…anyone's ever…tried to tickle…my foot," he gasps between bouts of laughter and she is laughing now, too, a laugh that is full and high pitched, music to his ears. Their lives have been weighed down by nightmares and nervousness, waiting for something bad to come along again. Through her laughter, he knows things are getting better, they are getting better.

He pulls his foot gently from her hand and leans forward, balancing his weight on top of her. His smile takes over his whole face as he takes his hand and starts running his fingers through her hair now. "If you ever do that again I'm going to cut it," she says and he shakes his head.

"No. I love your hair," he replies and kisses the top of her head just to prove it.

"Oh really?" she asks and lifts an eyebrow.

"Mmhmm. And I love you." He doesn't say it often, but when he does it's like her entire world stops for a second as she lets the words sink in. Her face hurts from smiling so much because it's the first time she's smiled like this since maybe when he took her on that case when he first returned to London. She can feel it too, the weight lifting off of the two of them.

"I love you, too," she replies before pulling his lips to hers.

_**And you will never know just how beautiful you are to me**_

He's throwing a fit in the flat when she walks in, papers lying all about the room while gun smoke hangs in the air, creating a fog that resembles his mind in that moment. She sets her groceries down before slowly approaching him. His feet are picking up speed as he paces back and forth in front of the fireplace, his hands rising to his head as he lets out a frustrated groan.

"What's wrong, love?" she says while standing beside him and watching.

"The case. The case, Molly. It's been a week and I still can't figure it out. Four serial murders and I can't find the murderer. I can't find him!"

"I know you'll figure it out, Sherlock. You always do," she replies and walks up to him now, a hand automatically resting on his cheek, calming him down until his mind is no longer racing and the headache that he was experiencing minutes ago begins to dissipate.

"This should be easy," he tells her. "I should have solved this ages ago."

"Want me to take a look?"

So they head down to the scene where they meet John and Lestrade who are standing over a fresh body. She slides on a pair of gloves and bends down to the dead man before them, grabbing his arm and studying the scratches there.

Sherlock watches her, the way her hands are so methodical in her search, how her eyes hone in on the important parts of the body. He can almost see the gears in her head turning, one neuron firing into the next and he thinks she's making deductions, just like he taught her to do. She's only there for one minute before she stands up, pulls the gloves off and throws them at Lestrade saying, "If his wife wears pink nail polish arrest her," before she walks to the door without another word in true-Sherlock fashion.

She doesn't even make it out of the door before the consulting detective has her pinned against the wall, snogging her senseless as John stares at them with an open mouth.

"Really, Sherlock?" says Lestrade as he shakes his head.

"We are at a crime scene, mate," adds John but the detective and the pathologist are too wrapped up in each other to care.

_**And would you ever feel guilty if you did the same to me? Would you make me a cup of tea to open my eyes in the right way**_

"Sherlock…" The whisper reaches his ear and tickles him, rousing him from his sleep with a smile spreading across his face as he opens one eye and gives his _girlfriend_ a sideways glance from his position on the bed. She's kneeling next to him, her hand cupped around a candle that's sitting in a stack of pancakes, the fire from the candle lighting up her eyes in an enchanting way.

"Happy birthday!" she says cheerily and if it was anybody else he would tell them to get lost, but it's her and it lightens him up knowing that she remembered his birthday. No one ever celebrated his birthday as he thought birthdays were a ridiculous concept.

"Thank you," he says as he slowly sits up and rubs at his eyes. "But you know I never celebrate my birthday."

"Hush, Sherlock Holmes. We're celebrating. Now make a wish and blow out the candle," she replied sternly.

"Molly, wishes are…" He can't finish his sentence because in the next moment Molly's hand is clamped over his mouth and she's laughing even though she's trying to be stern.

"I don't care if wishes are a trick used by people to make them believe that nonsensical things can happen to them and that they have a say in their destiny. It is your birthday. I made pancakes. You're making a wish and blowing out this candle." She narrows her eyes at him and tries not to smile while she waits for him to make up his mind. When he nods she removes her hand.

He stares at her intently and can't imagine of anything he would want more in life. He has plenty of cases to work on, great friends, and his Molly. The only thing he can hope for is that he lives a long life with the people he's been gifted and that danger, when it comes, never makes any detrimental damage. So that's what he wishes for as he blows out his first birthday candle ever since he was eight years old.

The smile he gets from Molly is worth all of the ridiculousness involved. "Happy birthday, Sherlock," she says again. And this time when he says thank you, he means it.

_**And I know you love Shrek, cause we**__**'**__**ve watched it twelve times, but maybe you**__**'**__**re hoping for a fairytale, too**_

It's been almost a year since Molly shot Moriarty and Sherlock still hasn't kept his promise, the promise to propose to Molly Hooper. But, the truth is that they are so busy caught up in their lives, caught up in each other, that they have these moments of forgetfulness, when it's just them and they're together and what does it matter if they're engaged or not. Sherlock doesn't even think of it until he kneels down by his bed and digs through a drawer of his side table one day, looking for files on a case that was closed ages ago when he comes across a small black box, the outside dusty but the ring inside a shining silver that makes his eyes go wide with excitement when he opens it. So he starts to formulate a plan.

He owes her this much, a proposal that she remembers, after everything he's put her through and all the time he wasted not being with her. He stands up, still staring blatantly at the ring, his mouth agape and he thinks about the past year. About what it is like to truly be in love with Molly Hooper. He's loved her since the fall, he knows that much. But he wasn't _in love_ with her until later. Until they were together for a month and they both realized that almost all of her stuff was at Baker Street and the blush that spread across her cheeks from the comment his brother made about their whole arrangement made Sherlock kiss her, right in front of the British government, because that's when he realized that she really and truly was his. He didn't fall in love until he took her on an actual date, one that didn't involve any cases, and when on their walk back to Baker Street she shyly put her hand in his, and he fell in love with the feeling of having their fingers intertwined and the way his thumb was naturally inclined to stroke hers and how she leaned her head on his shoulder when their footfalls fell in line. He didn't fall in love until the day they had their first fight because he was being a git and she was getting annoyed so she stormed out of their bedroom and he thought for sure she was gone, that she would leave him but when he opened the door she was just standing there with tears in her eyes. He managed to get out an apology before she crashed her lips onto his.

They loved each other but they needed time to _fall in love_. And here they are, a year after their relationship began, still falling, not seeing the bottom of the canyon but not really caring because life is so much better when he comes home after a case and gets to recount every detail to Molly who sits there waiting for him. Life is better when Molly surprises him by wrapping her arms around him and leaning into his back when he's working on an experiment; sometimes she even joins in. Life is better with a hand to hold, he decides. And being the person who has given him all of this and much more, she deserves a fairy tale, something out of the ridiculous films and novels she loves so much.

He takes her on a case one day. A fake one, because he made it up of course, but he's a good actor when he needs to be and she's absolutely convinced they're on their way to investigate a robbery in the country side. They arrive at a small cottage, a garden spanning the entire front and back. Molly's too engrossed in taking in the sights and smells of all the flowers that she doesn't notice how nervous Sherlock is.

"Our client lives here?" she asks as he removes two suitcases from the car he borrowed from Mycroft. "Sherlock?" she says now that she sees the luggage.

"No. There is no client. I needed an excuse to get you out here, and here we are," he says simply and begins to walk into the house.

"Then what exactly are we doing here?"

"We're just visiting for a weekend. I thought we could both take a break from work and just…" he fumbles for words here, his cheeks turning red. "Hang out?" he questions. They're inside now and Molly takes a minute to look around. She notices wine sitting on the kitchen counter, candles lying everywhere, various flowers littering the entry way.

"Sherlock…" she starts, a smile evident in her voice. "Did you bring me here for a romantic weekend getaway?" She walks up to him and wraps her arms around his waist, her chin resting on his chest as she looks up at him.

His eyes shift around the room, his mouth trying to form words. "I…uh… maybe. I just thought…" She cuts him off with a kiss and when she tries to pull away, he grabs her head gently, guiding her back to him.

It's later that night, when they're sitting in the back garden, gazing at the stars, and laughing at a joke Molly cracked that he decides to act on the deed he's been planning for three years now.

"Molly," he says slowly as their laughter dies down.

"Sherlock," she mimics with a smile and he sits up beside her, then stands when he's too nervous to sit. He starts pacing, back and forth, his hands wringing together in front of him while Molly just sits there and waits for him, deducing what is coming and knowing that he just needs time.

After a minute or two he stops in front of her and grabs her hand, effectively pulling her up beside him. "Molly," he says again and takes a deep breath. "Three years ago I was walking down a street in France. My hair was blond, my clothes were different, but I was still me. And because I was me, when I passed a jeweler and caught sight of a ring sitting in the window, my thoughts immediately turned to you and how badly I wanted to put it on your finger. But you know this. I've told you this story before. Two years ago, when I got back from dismantling Moriarty's network, I wanted to put that ring on your finger but unfortunately I was too late." She reached forward now and grabbed his hand, giving him an apologetic smile. "But you obviously know this, too," he continued. "One year ago, when we were both out of harm's way I wanted to put this same ring on your finger once again. But life happened and I was too busy falling in love with you to argue with myself about proposing to you. So I didn't. But you know this as well. You know me so well, Molly Hooper. But what you don't know is this." He grabbed her other hand and held them between his own, his eyes locked on hers. "I have made so many plans for us, Molly. Plans that I've never told you because it is ridiculous to daydream however I do it anyway. You also can never know how much I care for you because even I can't myself believe it at times. I'm a ridiculous man, Molly Hooper, one who used to believe that sentiment is a chemical defect, that love is human error, a dangerous disadvantage. And if you don't know this already, _you_ proved me wrong, something that people so rarely manage to accomplish. And I want to spend the rest of my life being proven wrong. So, Molly Jane Hooper, will you marry me?" He gets down on one knee and holds the ring out, his nerves coming back when he sees tears falling down Molly's cheeks. He curses himself silently waiting for her answer, thinking that he most definitely did something wrong.

But after what seems like an eternity but actually are a few seconds, Molly takes a deep shuddering breath and lets out a breathy, "Yes, you wonderful man. Of course I'll marry you."

Sliding that ring on Molly's finger feels like the end of a journey, but also the beginning of a new one, one that will include all sorts of ups and downs for the two of them. Sherlock knows he'll mess up sometimes and he knows that it won't always be easy but judging by the way she's looking at him right now he also knows it will all be worth it.

"I love you, Molly Hooper," he says as he wraps his arms around her waist, resting his forehead against hers. She replies with a kiss, a kiss under the stars with a ring on her finger, one that she knows she'll never want to remove. A kiss with the most amazing man she's ever known, _the one who__'__s always mattered._

_**And if your DVD breaks today, you should**__**'**__**ve got a VCR, **__**'**__**cause I**__**'**__**ve never owned a Blu-ray, true say**_

"Sherlock!" yells Molly as she stumbles through the door of 221B carrying bags of take away. Her eyes are met with the consulting detective, a violin to his chin, harsh sounds coming off the strings. His eyes are closed, his eyebrows pushed together, and Molly knows what has happened from the way his bow clashes against his strings, the way the muscles in his back that are showing from under the shirt he's wearing are tensed up.

She sets the bags down on the table before walking to him and wrapping her arms around his stomach, resting her cheek against his back after kissing him just between the shoulder blades. His muscles relax as she breathes against his back. "You told Mycroft," she says simply and he nods, still looking out of the window of _their_ flat. "He didn't take it well," she states and he shakes his head. They stay like that for a few minutes, his arms lowering his instrument and his hands resting on hers. He takes a few deep, even breaths before speaking.

"I told him I proposed. He said it was the worst idea he's ever heard, that I will surely break you. He told me I'm not capable of handling a marriage and that it will crumble."

He turns around in her arms then, his hands coming up to cup her face.

"I don't believe a word of that," she tells him, her heart breaking when she see his eyes misting over.

"I know I'm not going to be the greatest husband. But I can promise you I'll try. I won't let us crumble, Molly."

"I know you won't. And you will be the greatest husband. You're already the greatest boyfriend - the greatest fiancé, I should say - the greatest one for me, which is all that matters." He smiles at her and leans down to kiss her. "You're still mad," she states and he nods, his face still looking tense. "Let's break something, maybe not my ear drums." She smirks and grabs his hands, leading him over to a box of their things that they were giving away. Her hands dig around until she finds a glass candy dish and hands it to him.

"I don't know how to do this, Molly," he states, looking at the bowl as if it's a foreign object.

"Sherlock, you literally break things all the time," she replies with a laugh.

"Yes, but this is…"

"Playful? Yes. So play with me, Sherlock Holmes." He is unable to resist her smile, the one that can always make him feel better even when he's feeling so down. So with a grin matching his fiancée's, he holds the bowl over his head and brings his arms down fast, the glass shattering at his feet. Molly hands him another one and he throws this one against the wall. He flashes her a sheepish look, suddenly aware that he just got glass everywhere but she laughs out loud and simply bends down to pick up a mug to throw at the same place on the wall, right next to his yellow smiley face.

They take turns throwing things against the wall until they reach the bottom of the box where laid an old VCR player. He picks it up and gives her a mischievous grin. "I think we need something heavier for this." He leaves the room and returns with two hammers. Molly doesn't even question where he got them, just grabs one and brings it down on the player hard, him not following far behind her. They are a mess of giggles, shattered glass and plastic by the time the Watsons, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade enter 221B.

Sherlock and Molly don't even notice, they just keep smashing things, Sherlock laughing harder than he had in a long while. "Uh…Guys?" says John cautiously as he walks in. Two heads snap to meet him before another bout of laughter creeps over both the pathologist and her consulting detective.

"Are we interrupting something?" asks Lestrade. "You two did invite us over. Said you had some news?"

"Oh, right. The news," says Sherlock. "Molly and I are engaged."

"And this is?" asks Mary.

"Celebrating," says Molly with finality before dropping her hammer and receiving congratulatory hugs from all their friends.

_**And I**__**'**__**ve always been shit at computer games, and your brother always beats me, and if I lost I**__**'**__**d go across and chuck all the controllers at the TV**_

Sherlock had never met a significant other's family. Well, he had never had a significant other. And he has always been terrible at making first impressions. But he _has_ to make a good first impression for Molly's brother and his family. Her parents are long gone and her brother is the only family she has left.

The pathologist in question now fidgets nervously outside her brother's door.

"I thought I was the one who was supposed to be nervous," states Sherlock.

"I'm not nervous." He gives her a pointed look but before he can respond the door opens and three little boys crowd Molly's legs.

"Auntie Molly!" they all shout and Molly bends down to greet each one of them. Sherlock has to smile at the encounter as he always held an annoying soft spot for children.

"You've all gotten so big!" Molly exclaims when she straightens up beside Sherlock. "Max!" she shouts when she sees her brother come up behind the boys. Max twirls her around in a circle in a hug as she laughs.

"Hey, Molls. It's so good to see you. Susan's in the kitchen. Why don't you guys come in?" her brother says.

Sherlock and Molly step into the house, not too big - the perfect size for a family of five. Sherlock takes in his surroundings and on their own accord, various deductions start whizzing through his brain but then he stops himself. Because this is Molly's family and no matter what they're like, Sherlock knows he still has to be nice. Molly has brought him a long way.

"Max, boys," says Molly now. "This is my fiancé Sherlock." She grabs Sherlock's arm and looks up at him lovingly.

"I thought you already had a fiancé," says the older boy.

"Noah!" shouts Max and then turns to Sherlock. "I'm sorry. Kids, you know. It's nice to meet you, Sherlock. Molly has told us a lot about you." Sherlock takes Max's hand and shakes it.

"It's…uh… nice to meet you, too," manages Sherlock, social niceties still being a new thing for him. Molly seems to appreciate it though because she squeezes Sherlock's hand and smiles at him.

"Molly why don't you go see Susan while I take Sherlock inside so the boys and I can get to know him. We were just playing some video games. He can join us," says Max.

"Video games are…" starts Sherlock, an entire speech about video games being a waste of thinking already formulating in his head, but Molly buts him off quickly by saying his name, her eyes narrowing in his direction. "Fun," finishes Sherlock. "Video games are…good."

Molly lets him go with a kiss on the cheek, and when she arrives in the living room a half an hour later, she sees her fiancé standing up with a controller in his hands, laughing happily when he loses to her youngest nephew while the boys taunt him. Sherlock grabs the younger Hooper and flips him upside down while the other boys begin to jump on the detective. Molly's brother laughs at the crew before going to help Sherlock fight the boy's off. It turns into a game, Sherlock declaring that the boys are going to have to walk the plank and for someone who claims he doesn't play, he's doing pretty well.

_**And then you**__**'**__**d laugh at me and be asking me, if I**__**'**__**m gonna be home next week,**_

He never thought he would find himself in a church, much less standing at the front of a church in a suit and watching his wife-to-be walk down the aisle. Sherlock's breath catches in his throat as he gets his first glimpse of her, when the back doors of the church open and she emerges attached to her brother's arm. Molly could be so shy at times and unsure of herself, but in that moment she looks so confident. As if marrying Sherlock was the only thing she had been sure of. Sherlock smiles at that thought, as he believes himself to be the most unstable person in all of London.

But Molly, _his_ Molly, she is special. She can handle it. Their relationship has been anything but stable ever since it started when he stomped into her morgue one day. He was young then, just twenty-eight years old, just getting into work with Scotland Yard and just getting off the drugs. When he saw her standing there, her hands shaking as she uncovered a body for him, her voice soft when she spoke, he had felt his pulse accelerate, his breath hitching a bit, but he brushed it off to being in the morgue for the first time, for working with the actual police force for the first time. It wasn't until now, that he was staring at her in that white lace dress with her hair curled and cascading down around her shoulders, a small smile playing on her lips as she stares at him, that he realizes he has always felt a connection with Molly Hooper.

She makes her way to him, her brother planting a kiss on her forehead and shaking Sherlock's hand before he takes his seat. Sherlock smiles at her and she smiles back. He turned down five cases this week because of wedding preparations. He spent the last five days up to his eyeballs in flowers and ribbons and centerpieces. He got a call that morning about a case that rated a ten that he had to turn down. But with Molly Hooper - _soon to be Holmes_ - he wouldn't have it any other way.

_**And then you lie with me, till I fall asleep and flutter an eyelash on my cheek, between the sheets**__**…**_

Sherlock fumbles with the key card in his haste to get Molly into their hotel room. The wedding had been like any normal wedding; Sherlock couldn't wait until everyone left and he could just be with Molly on his own. He played nice though, for her sake. But all he could think of was getting _Molly Holmes_ out of her wedding gown.

Now as that little light on the lock lit up green, he pushes the door open with a broad smile, winking to Molly. She made to walk in, but he stops her with a hand on her shoulder and picks her up bridal style, careful not to snag her dress in anyway. She lets out an uproarious laugh as they enter the room, one that covers up with a heated kiss, stealing any breath that she had left.

He lays her down on the bed gently, hovering over on top of her before he bends down again, this time to trail a line of kisses from her ear all the way down her neck.

"I could tell this was all you were thinking about all day," she whispers and her breath hitches when he reaches the hollow of her neck.

"Am I really that obvious, Molly Hoop… Holmes." He laughs. "That's going to take some getting used to."

"It was the way your hand stayed on the small of my back the whole time," she says, continuing her earlier train of thought.

"So I didn't have to talk to anyone on my own," he replies and reaches over to her side where her dress is zipped together, pulling the zip down slowly, then running his hand along her bare side.

"I don't think so," she says. "Or it could have been the way your pupils were dilated practically all day."

"It was dark in the reception hall."

"It wasn't that dark." She sits up and lets him pull the dress down to her waist and then off of her completely as she starts in on his shirt buttons. "Don't make excuses, Mr. Holmes. You want me."

"Congratulations, Mrs. Holmes," he says, kissing her once again. His voice deeper than usual. "You've solved the case."

_**And I think you hate the smell of smoke, you always try to get me to stop. You drink as much as me, and I get drunk a lot**_

Its been three months in honeymoon-phase bliss before their first fight as husband and wife. The couple has lasted two months and two weeks longer than John originally thought, but even when they start fighting, it is small, and has a very happy ending. It starts when Molly finds a small white box tucked away inside a hollowed out book on the book shelf. She stares at the box, her eyebrows furrowing and her anger just beginning to rise as Sherlock walks through the door.

"What are these?" she asks him from the step ladder she's on. He freezes for a nanosecond, a chip resting halfway between the take out carrier he's holding and his open mouth. The pause would be unnoticeable to anyone else, but Molly catches it right away.

"Cigarettes, Molly. Obviously. They must be the ones that I forgot to get rid of. I've given them up, remember?" he says and continues on his way to the kitchen. She does remember. She remembers him telling her that he was giving up all forms of nicotine. What she doesn't remember, however, is actually watching him get rid of old cigarettes or nicotine patches.

"You're lying, Sherlock. I'm your wife. I can tell when you're lying. You promised me you'd stop," she replies and walks to the waste bin, chucking the white container in. He goes white watching her do it.

"I really don't see what's so bad about it. You told me long ago that you would never want me to change."

"Yes, but I _need_ you to make this change for me."

"Why?" he demands, standing up now, abandoning his fish and chips on the table.

"Maybe because it's unhealthy. Maybe because I don't like the smell. Maybe because I work in a bloody morgue and I've seen what smoking can do to people. Or maybe because I'm afraid that smoking might be the first step to you using again."

She stops herself then, when she sees his face go pale and his eyes fall. This topic, the drugs topic, has always been a sore spot for him, his biggest regret he tells her one night after they start dating when she notices the tracks on his arms.

"You know I wouldn't do that," he says seriously.

"I still need you to stop smoking," she says just as seriously.

"You know it helps me think. I've tried to stop. I can't focus without the nicotine. Please give me one good reason why I should stop."

She sighs heavily and averts her eyes before speaking. "I don't want you smoking around the baby."

"The baby?" he asks confusedly. "Like John's baby? She's not here often enough for…"

"Not John's," Molly says, her voice wavering and a hand resting over her stomach. "Ours."

_**So I take you to the beach, and walk along the sand and I**__**'**__**ll make you a heart pendant, with a pebble held in my hand**_

"Daddy!" shouts a four year old little boy, his brown curls bouncing around his face and his blue eyes catching fire with the setting sun on the ocean horizon. Sherlock holds out his arms for his son and scoops him up easily, throwing the boy over his shoulder while he giggles and shrieks.

"Dad! Put me down!" yells the boy while his father laughs right along with him. Molly stands in front of the pair, pulling a camera to her face and snapping a picture before letting the camera rest along her swollen stomach. She makes a silent prayer that her water won't break right there on the beach and Sherlock won't have to deliver their second child, a girl this time, on his own. He was a nervous wreck the first time, but didn't once turn to nicotine for help, keeping true to his word.

"I think Jack is feeling a little hot," says Sherlock to Molly, with a wicked grin on his face. "Maybe he should go for a little swim." He runs to the water with his son still in tow and pulls him down so that his little toes hit the water.

"Cold cold cold!" he shouts until Sherlock places him gently back on the beach. Molly had her doubts about how Sherlock would handle parenthood, but watching him with Jack, it was like he was a natural, their impromptu beach trip being his idea because he had been spending too much time away from his son to be on cases.

"Mummy," says the little boy now as he walks up to Molly. "I found this rock for you. It looks like a heart, I think."

"Yes it does, Jack. Thank you so much," replies Molly flashing a sweet smile to her son.

"I think I have an idea for that," says Sherlock to her while they watch Jack run into the waves.

_**And I**__**'**__**ll carve it like a necklace, so the heart falls where your chest is, and now a piece of me is a piece of the beach and it falls just where it needs to be and rests peacefully**_

"We have two teenagers. Two, Sherlock. Two teenagers under one roof. Plus you. You're like an overgrown toddler." Mr. and Mrs. Holmes watch as their thirteen year old daughter blows out the candles on her birthday cake, their seventeen year old son standing in the corner with a phone in his hand and his eyes glued to the screen.

Sherlock had planned this birthday party, much to Molly and Lia's dismay. They had had a detective birthday party for Lia every year, complete with a staged case that Sherlock set up himself. Lia always loved them, being the only one in her group of friends who was smart enough to crack the case, and Sherlock loved watching her do it, noticing the familiar glint in her eyes as she stumbled upon a new clue, the furrow in her brow as she went to her mind palace to connect the few dots that she had, and the smile that burst over her face when she finally reached the solution.

This year, however, Lia insisted that she was too grown up for detective parties. Sherlock blatantly ignored the statement and planned a party anyway and he couldn't help but be smug about the smile that was on his daughter's face. She would never be too old for detective work.

"I've solved the world's most baffling murders, Molly. How hard could two teenagers be?"

He would find out in the later months, what with the mood swings, fights, and curfew breaking. But when he looks at the necklace that Molly wore every day, the little pebble shaped like a heart, he knows he would give everything for his family, especially as he and Molly grow older, and he feels his children slipping through his fingertips, moving on to have families of their own. He was never one for sentiment until he met his Molly, but watching his daughter walk down the aisle to get married, holding his first grandchild in his arms, grabbing hold of Molly's hand during their thirtieth anniversary celebration, he can't help the tears that fill up his eyes.

_**So you just need to breathe to feel my heart against yours now, against yours now**_

Sherlock and Molly accept aging gracefully, moving to the countryside after Sherlock decides to retire from detective work and switches to beekeeping at the age of sixty. They spend their days reading together, watching over their grandchildren, and just being Sherlock and Molly.

The night that Molly passes away, the sky is on fire with the light from the stars and Sherlock stares at it, his eyes misting over when he realizes that his wife is no longer breathing.

_**Cause maybe I**__**'**__**m just in love when you wake me up**_

His mind wanders to him lying awake beside her during his two year leave from London, her small form breathing in and out peacefully. He desperately wishes to see her chest rise and fall again.

_**Well maybe I**__**'**__**m just in love when you wake me up**_

His mind wanders to him lying awake beside her during their many years as a couple and the way he would lean forward and kiss the space between her eyebrows, waiting for her eyes to flutter open. He desperately wishes to see her brown orbs just one more time.

_**Maybe I fell in love when you woke me up**_

He's lying in bed that night, his entire body aching in his old age and he sees his entire life, all of these memories, the fights, the make ups, the good times, the bad, coming to him, little bits of his life that he had tucked away in his mind palace. He had never believed the notion that before one dies their whole life flashes before their eyes but here he is, watching the movie that is his life, the beginning clouded with shadows and then the memories lighting up as Molly enters them like a shining beacon, the one who came and saved him. The one person who mattered the most. And he knows now that Molly isn't here to save him this time and that's okay. Because he can see her and in an instant she's young again with her hair lit up golden and her eyes brimming with life and he can't believe that she's there in front of him. _His Molly._ She holds out her hand, wiggles her fingers, her wedding ring catching the sun of what Sherlock determines must be a day dream but what he's hoping is not, and if this is what dying is like then he would do it over and over again. If it meant Molly could always be a part of it. She pouts at him slightly when he doesn't grab her hand and he can't help but smile, knowing she's teasing.

_"__What do you need?__"_ he asks her as his hand is already reaching out, their fingertips lightly grazing and setting their worlds on fire.

_"__You,__"_ she replies as Sherlock closes his eyes for the last time.


End file.
